


A Measure of Progress

by Quietbang



Series: I'll Follow the Sun [1]
Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Ableism, Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst, Bigotry, Canon Compliant, Espionage, F/F, F/M, History, Holocaust, Homophobia, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Mental Institutions, Politics, Prejudice, Rebellion, Sexism, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-06
Updated: 2012-01-12
Packaged: 2017-10-25 18:11:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/273247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quietbang/pseuds/Quietbang
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a greater enemy on the horizon.<br/>Erik does not walk away.</p><p>For what is lost can be found, and there is a fine line between love and hate. An exploration of prejudice and politics.</p><p>Very loosely based on  the following prompt:  <i> tl;dr- an exploration of what being a gay telepath during the 60s would have been like.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: _So one day Erik and Charles are having one of their ~discussions~ during a chess match or whenever, but this time it's getting a bit more heated than usual for whatever reason. Erik (and Raven has in the past maybe?) is saying stuff like Charles has never been discriminated against/doesn't have to hide his true self, not like Raven, stuff like that. And without thinking because he's angry Charles busts out with something like "OMG I'M GAY AND ALL THE TIME I CAN HEAR ALL THE NASTY HORRIBLE STUFF PEOPLE THINK ABOUT HOMOSEXUALS AND I HIDE MYSELF WHENEVER I FLIRT WITH GIRLS" or... something along those lines._
> 
>  _And I don't want it to be a PWP and Erik is all 'me too! *sexes*' I want Erik to have no clue, and probably have internalized a lot of the stereotypes about gay people that society believed/believes, etc. (There's not enough of that in fic so far, c'mon people, it was the 60s.)  
>  Mostly I want an exploration of what it would have been like for a gay telepath in the 60s, and Erik realizing that Charles DOES understand, at least to some degree... and then struggling with his own sexuality. And this all happening slowly over chessboard!talks/arguments and whatnot.  
> You could totally also include his step brother's/step father's abuse/neglect (could tie that into them thinking he was gay or even just because he wasn't ~manly~ idk)._
> 
>  _Bonus points if Charles freaks out after coming out to Erik, and Erik is a little off balance because he did NOT see that coming and so not reassuring Charles right away and so... Charles!angst. This was also probably his first coming out. It would make sense for Raven not to know since that's why she thinks Charles doesn't understand._
> 
>  _More bonus points if at some point Charles in the discussions says something along the lines of "and I'm well aware that if I lived in Germany I would've been sent to the camps too because of this" and all the metal in the house starts rattling as Erik is furious at the idea of (his) Charles anywhere near the camps._
> 
>  _More bonus points if the reason the argument was more heated than normal because Charles was upset about something specific, like one of the kids saying something really homophobic or something horrible in the news, etc._
> 
>  _tl;dr- exploration of what being a gay telepath during the 60s would have been like, and erik and raven's reactions to finding that out.  
> _
> 
> This began as a simple post-Cuba AU exploring homophobia, but it became a massive exercise in world-building and politics and dystopia. I hope you like it anyways.

“-You _cannot_ believe that!”

“Like _Hell_ I can't! Erik, there is a _difference_ between prudence and cowardice!”

Erik snorted. “Oh, yes, you would know all about that, wouldn't you?”

Charles stilled. “I _beg_ your pardon?”

“I've spoken to Raven, you know, Charles.”

“That's different.”

“ _How?_ ”

“She's my sister. I _love_ her. I want her to be _safe_. This is neither the place nor the time to be different Erik. Especially not as a woman.” _You of all people should know that._

Erik smiled. It was not a nice smile. “No, that's not what it is. Tell me, Charles, what do you know of discrimination? Of hatred? You don't know the meaning of the word. Mystique makes _you_ uncomfortable, you arrogant bastard, and so you want to ignore it, you want to make her a slave, you want her to _hide_.”

“I want her to be safe.” Charles repeated.

“That's easy for you to say, Charles. You've never had to hide. You have no idea what it does to her, _pretending_ to be something that she's not-”

Charles' heart is pounding in his chest, and his muscles are twitching, and he can taste sweat and adrenaline and for a moment he feels the press of chapped lips against his own, sees the bloodied face of soft, effeminate Jerry Stephens.

“Don't I, Erik?” His voice is soft, his eyes blank pools of blue.

He looks at the ceiling, into his drink, out the window- anywhere but at him. “I'm a homosexual, Erik. So yes, my _dear friend_ , I imagine I know quite a bit of what it does to her to _hide_.”

Erik stares at him. That doesn't make any sense. This is _Charles_ \- how could Erik not have- but  
he doesn't seem-

“-Insane?” Charles says, his voice as dark as coffee. “Sick? _Filthy?_ ”

Erik does not say anything.

Charles rolls towards him, his face a knot of _painguiltanxietyfear_.

Erik, without quite meaning to, flinches.

Charles stops. He stares, unblinking, at Erik.

Erik does not say anything.

Without a word, Charles leaves the room.  
__________________________________________________________________________________

Erik isn't sure what to think after that.

In a way, it's a measure of trust: Charles could have removed the memory from his brain, pretended that it hadn't happened at all. For all his pretence of humanitarianism, he knows that Charles would not have hesitated to do it, if he thought he was in danger- if he thought Erik posed a genuine threat.

But.

But.

 _It doesn't make any sense._

Charles- Charles is- _small_ , yes, and soft in a way that Erik is not accustomed to, but he's not- not like- _that_. Doesn't lisp or mince or simper, and when he walked- _had_ walked, and Erik was really doing his best not to feel fucking guilty about that, and it wasn't working- he didn't wiggle his hips or frolic.

It was late, now, two or three in the morning, and he had not moved from his spot in the study, glass of rye still cradled in his hand.

Unbidden, his thoughts drifted to the thoughts of the men in the camps- perverts, _Abartige, Tunte,_ , who had been marked in pink, as sex criminals.

The way they had always been the first to be experimented on, the first to be chosen for the pleasure of the guards, the _first to die_ , because without someone watching out you were as good as dead.

Nobody had wanted to watch out for them.

After liberation, in the displaced person's camp, he had seen the police arrive to take one of them away.

He had been young, not much older than Erik, and he may have been handsome once, but now all that was left was pain and shame and resignation, the history of a life written in grime and wrinkled, tissue-paper skin.

His face- Erik would always remember his eyes. Resigned, dead. Looking at the watching crowd with an expressionless stare, not questioning why nobody came to his defence.

 _Wasn't Auschwitz enough?_ he had wondered at the time.

But he hadn't said anything.

Nobody did.

Even amongst those who have been told all their lives that they are sub-human, there is a hierarchy.

Erik couldn't help but imagine Charles in the same position.

The terrible acceptance of that fate.

Erik drained his glass, and poured another. A strange burst of panic filled his chest, and then-

 _-They had him strapped down, why was he strapped down? Mother, no, don't do this, I'm not like that, I promise! Mother- no, don't let them- MOTHER! The bed, hard, uncomfortable, was moving now, the thoughts of the orderlies and nurses-  
-soyoungsohandsomewhatawaste and filthlikehimhe'sluckysomeonecaresenough and theycanhelphimtheycanhelphim and betterhimthanmepoorthingbutstill- _

_swirling through his head, and a man, tired and old, in a white coat is showing him the electrodes, and a smooth piece of wood is being shoved into his mouth, his arms and legs tied down, PLEASEPLEASEGODYOUCANNOTDOTHIS! -and his brain is heavy, his thoughts leaden, but not enough that he doesn't feel the PAIN, ohgod the pain, coursing through his veins, his muscles twitching and jumping, his mind a jumbled smash of_

 _\---ohgodmakeitstopthisisn,tyoucan,tidon'tunderststopnooohgoditHURTS!_

 _And it is over, and they are done, and his muscles feel as though they have been replaced with copper wire, and this is onlythefirsttreatment please someone help me Raven Raven I wish you were here why did I let them send you away I need you dear God I need you no I don't she will never know how weak-sick-weak her brother is, she WILL NEVER KNOW._

Erik breathes in deeply, his body tense, reaching for the phantom gun he no longer kept at his side,  
 _where is he?_  
But he opens his eyes (he did not notice that they had been closed) and that's when he realises-

 _it's not his memory._


	2. Chapter 2

Erik has a moment of shock, then pain, then anger- burning anger- at Charles and at the _world_ and at- well, mostly at Charles.

He stands and walks to window, his limbs trembling, his breath harsh and raw.

 _pain, but there was always pain, detached yet raw, electrodes measuring his brainwaves, needles that buzzed and spat like honeybees pressing through his flesh, lifting heavier and heavier metal objects as Herr Doktor took copious notes, and-_

He cuts off the memory with the bloodless pragmatism of the dented and furious.

It's not the same. It's not.

Why the fuck would Charles show him that?

 _trust or stupidity, trust or stupidity- that was always the problem with Charles- which was it?_  
Erik Lehnsherr knows what it feels like to break.

Apparently, so does Charles Xavier.

He knows, and he should be _ashamed_ , scared of emotion, of weakness, he shouldn't _show people_ , he should-

 _why would he show him that?_

For a moment, he wonders if it had not been intentional, but he dismisses the thought.  
Charles is

- _infuriatingarrogant **confusing**_ -  
but he has never had anything other than exquisite control over his mutation.

 _Why?_

 _Because I do understand, Erik. I understand everything._

Erik does them the courtesy of not pointing out that which they both know to be false.

 _Stay out of my head, Charles._

 _In my defence, you were thinking rather loudly._

 _I said **stay out** , gottverdammt.  
_

It's not that Erik doesn't (didn't) trust him, inasmuch as he is(was) capable of trust. But his thoughts are dark, his head a prison, and at the best of times he is private, and he can't quite shake the feeling that he

 _didn't know who the fuck this Xavier guy was anymore._

A twinge, quickly suppressed, of _painshamefear_ winds its fickle way across the house and into his mind.

Erik sighs.

He sits in silence.

After an eternity (10 minutes) he hears someone approaching the library, and his reflexes seem to know it is Charles even if his mind does not, because he does not lock the door. Instead, he remains seated, his body a coiled spring of tension.

He does not know what to do, what to say, when the younger man

-(old, so old, in ways Erik could never quite quantify, impatient for change yet sedate, deep and dark and secretly cynical, painted over with a burning need to _fix_ people.  
Nobody had ever told him that some people are just broken to begin with- the lesson may have been taught, in ways that Erik gets glimpses of, sometimes, when he sees how Raven and Charles avoid certain rooms of the house, how neither one of them will ever sleep without a locked door, how they depend on each other so utterly, parenting each other in ways that people that young shouldn't know how to do- but it had clearly failed to sink in.  
All of which really means that Charles is just as broken as the rest of them.)-

speaks, his eyes out the window, on the floor- anywhere but at Erik, white teeth gnawing at red lips ( _deep red, soft like a woman's_ , chapped and creased with age and tension).

He looks simultaneously eight and eighty in his worn slippers and robe.

“I suppose I should apologise,” he says finally,

(because Charles does not lie, not to Erik, not anymore, and he will not say _I am sorry,_ when he does not mean it)

“I hadn't thought- I was angry. It- I had not realised how it might affect you,” (the _my dear friend_ hangs silent, invisibly heavy, Charles clearly unsure if Erik will tolerate it)

Because it isn't the same, but it's similar enough that Erik's subconscious fails to recognize the differences his conscious mind highlights and scoffs at. All it sees is

 _a boy, young, and pain, all consuming pain, being made_ better _. Doctors, and burning fire, crying for his mother and neither expecting nor believing he is deserving of a response_

“They tortured you.” he says flatly, because he has to _hate_ , has to bear Charles' burdens as he always had, feeling and thinking the things he will not allow himself the luxury of and letting him blame him for it.

(It's one of the things that they do not talk about, that and that _goddamned_ bullet and a hundred half-shared nightmares and the way that sometimes, when their fingers touch accidentally, Erik feels as though a live current runs through their skin.)

It is to his credit that Charles does not attempt to deny this, but still smiles that strange, sad smile and says, softly, “It is not the same. They thought they were helping me. A cure for the illness, you know.”

(Charles knows, and he's fairly certain that Erik does as well, that that does not mean that it was right, but simply explainable. When he allows himself self-pity, attempts at a misguided personal absolution, he believed that it may have been worse for all that, because they had tried to break him, and _he could not hate them._ They had taken that as well.)

Erik nods. “That does not make it right.”

“No.”

“Why didn't you stop them?”

Charles pauses, and looks away. “I was thirteen, Erik.”

“So?”

Charles presses his lips together and shakes his head. His hands are shaking, although he is trying to hide it, and Erik knows any answer to that question will have to wait until later.

Erik's mouth is dry. “Are there- more? Like you, I mean?”

Because Charles is not what he ought to be, and Erik wonders if that is just Charles being _Charles_ , (beautifully) contradictory and brilliant, or something more that he is simply ignorant of.

“Homosexuals? Yes, of course.” Charles is looking at Erik with a confused expression, and Erik does not have to be a telepath to know that Charles is thinking _but you know that,_ of pink triangles and news reports, men in dresses and women in suits, mollies and tommies and paddy waggons.

“No- I mean, like _you_ ,” and Erik feels Charles dip into his head and for once does not protest, because he _does not understand_ , feels Charles look at his mental images of men in brightly coloured shirts and too-tight trousers, lisping men in dresses and makeup, their joviality tinged with defiance and desperation.

Charles smiles again, tilts his chin in defiance. “Most of us are not nearly so brave as they are, Erik.”

Erik does not understand, says as much, and Charles twitches noticeably.

“A conversation for another day, perhaps,my dear- _Erik_. “

Erik nods, then places a restraining hand on Charles' arm as he turns to leave.

“No matter what I may think about- that- they were still wrong, Charles. For what they did to you. It is unforgivable.”

Charles cocks his head, pales skin gleaming in the moonlight.

"Prejudice is always wrong, Erik. You know that."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dude, how did this turn into a doozy of an AU? We get into a lot of the actual _plot_ in this chapter, with, naturally, more angry conversations to follow in the next.
> 
> Also: I have pneumonia. English is not my first language. I have a fever of 41*C. Hence, this may suck. Sorry about that.

It is five days before they speak again.

They _talk_ , of course.

 _We're out of flour._

 _The construction workers are coming back tomorrow to fix the elevator._

 _They've arrested six mutants in Georgia._

 __

The situation is less than ideal, but Erik can't bring himself to change it. Because Charles- _braveweakwonderfulstrong_ Charles, who, for all his arrogance, _believes_ , for whom talking of emotions seems- well, almost obscenely easy- is acting strange, oscillating between a tentative wariness that makes Erik want to punch things and a dark, bitter cynicsm that makes his stomach curl.

Because that's not who Charles is, who he _was_ , and when Erik sees him having to consciously trigger his own optimism Erik can't help but wonder if maybe that's how it's always been and he had just never noticed, if Charles has been laid bare and rebuilt by the shock and trauma of that day, if his shields are still imperfect, stretched thin by weeks and months of rebuilding and slowly convincing his body to work again, of brutally frank discussions about capabilities, of hours upon hours of physical therapy and weight training, forming hard muscle and calluses from soft, weeping tissue.

He's not sure which would be worse, really- if Erik _had_ killed him that day, if his convictions were as easily shattered as his spine, or is this- this is how he's always been, jagged and bruised, painted over with compassion and idealism. Both options make Erik sick to his stomach.

(He had worried over him for months, from the first terrible days in the hospital, when Charles had woken and looked at him with terrible knowledge and condemned him in a whisper, words rasping in his chest,  
“ _I forgive you, Erik._ ”

Later, Raven would look at him, see the murderous fury and self-loathing warring in his eyes and say, softly, words falling from her lips like muddy waters, _“He won't hate you, will he? He always does that. If it makes you feel better, I can do it instead.”_

He was never sure if he should be grateful or resentful for that.)

It was much later, when Charles had looked at an image of the new president on screen and pursed his lips, that Erik had first seen the changes. They were talking about Vietnam, about the Reds, and his shoulders had gone tight and strange and he had said, words seemingly leaving his throat of their own accord,

“Maybe that will distract them for a while.”

And Erik had looked at him, raised and eyebrow, and Charles had smiled a rough, hard smile, but his eyes were bruised.

“There will always be war, Erik. I'd just prefer that it not be with us. Not now.”

 

The next day, Charles had joined them in training.

A week later, he had looked Erik in the eye and said "Hit me."

Erik had refused, of course.

The same thing happened the next day.

And the next.

Finally, he snapped.

He was never sure if he had done that, if Charles had worn him down, or if Charles had committed one of his thousand tiny violations that seemed to be all that stood between himself and the edge.  
Either way, Erik had run at him, and attempted to punch Charles in the head, only to find himself mysteriously unable to. He tried again. This time, the punch connected, and he recoiled in momentary horror until he felt the blow to his solar plexus.  
After that, the adrenaline rush kicked in, and they began to fight- Erik consciously weakening his punches, slowing his reaction time, while Charles fought brutally, chest heaving, eyes manic. At any time, they both could have stopped the other totally, but- that was not the point. The point was-  
well, he wasn't sure what it was, he just knew that this was something they had to do, something he could do for Charles, one of the few things that only he could give him.

Finally, Charles over-extended himself, his still-shaky trunk muscles giving out, and he was flung brutally to the ground.

Everything ground to a halt.

Charles looked up from the ground, his useless lower body awkwardly angled against his strong frame.  
" _Leave_ ," he spat. "All of you. _Now._ "

Erik had stayed, and Charles had glared at him, and opened his mouth to spit- and crumpled; horrible, harsh wheezing sounds that might have been laughter but were almost certainly tears forced their brutal way out of his lips. His body shook with emotion, rage and contempt and confusion winding their fickle fingers up his spine.

Erik had held him, then, held him like a child, as Charles choked and raged and sobbed until all the fury left his body and only an exhausted resignation remained.

They had sat like that for a long time.

Finally, Erik spoke. "Charles-"

"-Don't. Say. A fucking. _Word_ "

He hadn't, then, had merely stood by as Charles dragged himself back to his chair, knowing instinctively that his help would not be appreciated.

That had been the beginning, he can see now, the moment that changed everything. It had started there, but he hadn't realised that until, a week later, they had heard of the arrests. Hundreds of mutants, arrested and interrogated for their alleged 'terrorist sympathies'. A plethora of terrifying bills before the House of Congress.

"Well, Erik," Charles had said, looking older than he had ever seen him. "It would seem your war has come to pass."

Erik had grunted. "I did warn you. I suppose you plan to hide?"

"I intend to protect my own." A projected wisp of memory, hot and damp, the frantic following of mental cries, _fearexhaustionanxietybloodlust_ , an order to fire only if fired upon. The _rattattat_ of mahcine gun fire.

"And how will you do so?" _War is not pretty, Charles._

"We will. Together." _We need not fight it with their weapons, Erik._

Within the hour, Raven, Emma, and Azazel were gathered in the kitchen.

By morning, they were gone. None of them knew the entirety of the plan, something that had been hashed out and half formed a thousand times over their arguments, but which only Charles knew. He was the only one, he said, with sufficient defences to protect the information.

Erik suspected that he simply enjoyed feeling in control, but it was (in truth) a good plan, and something he wished he had suggested himself.

And so they had drummed along, fractious anger slowly but surely replaced with a thrumming, fearful anticipation and unconsciously negotiated peace. It had helped, Erik thought, that Charles was as ill at ease as he was, that he clearly wished to be on the front lines as much as he did, though in a different way.

And then- well, damn it, then that night happened, and the peace dissolved, and Erik wasn't sure how to reform it.

The next time they play chess is after the man comes.

*********************************************************************

They had been sitting at the breakfast table, pouring over newspapers and maps, Hank frantically sketching a schematic for- something- on a large sheet of graph paper.

Charles sat up straight in his chair.  
"Someone's coming."

Erik raised his hand, summoning the gun that sat in the drawer by his bed, other hand reaching for the knife that remained strapped to his ankle.

"It's alright," Charles said. "It's a- a friend."

"A mutant?"

Charles shook his head.

Erik's grip on the knife remained firm.

"Erik, it's fine. He only wishes to speak to me."

There were three sharp knocks on the door, followed by a man's rough voice.

"Charles Xavier?"

"I'm here, Stevenson."

Charles rolled towards the newly widened doorway. His motions had become much smoother, more fluent, but they held none of the dignified, mechanised grace that they would later acquire, reminiscent of an animal rather than a steamwork.

A man, tall and rough-faced, stood at the door in a neat, three-piece suit. His muscles were taught, with the sort of upright posture that made the synapses in Erik's brain twitch in anxiety.

The man stopped and stared. "What the fuck, Xavier? Being a fairy and a mutie wasn't enough for you? You figured you ought to be a cripple as well, complete the set?"

The doorknobs began to rattle.

"Erik."

They stopped.

"Need to talk to you, Xavier. Alone."

Charles stared at him for a long, tense moment.

"Fine," he said at last, "Upstairs, if you will. Erik, could you show him to the library?"

Erik nodded, bared his teeth in his most dangerous grin.

"My pleasure."

Erik followed them into the library and stood by the door, the wrought-iron rings of his spine tense, calculating how long it would take to disable the stranger.

The man eyed him with dislike, but otherwise paid him no mind.

"Look, let's get one thing clear, okay, Xavier? I'm here because you know my brother, and because you saved my ass over there, understand? I owe you one. Well, now, I'm paying. Harry figures we still owe the Good Shepherd something. Suppose I do too."

Charles nodded. "Go on."

"They're coming for you, Xavier. They know who you are."

Charles rolled his eyes. "I know."

"Do you?" with a fluid motion, he reached inside his overcoat and pulled out a manilla envelope. "They've had their eye on you for years, Xavier. Since before Korea. I can't believe it took them this long."

"It hasn't. I got my summons, same as Harry, same as the rest of them. I just have more resources at my disposal."

The man snorted. "Yeah, I reckon you did. Look, this ain't coming from me, you understand? Frankly, I don't care if they fry the whole damn lot of you. But you saved my ass, and you saved my brothers, and I don't give a flying fuck what sort of people you are, but we owe you one, and I promised I'd pass on a message from Harry."

"Oh, so we are _people_ now? Funny, that wasn't the impression I got from our last encounter."

He looked mutinous. "Yeah, well, Harry kicked my ass. What I'm telling you is- they know who you are, they know what you are. They know you're a queer, they know where you live, they know all your little tricks. They been building helmets to keep you out. They're coming for you, Xavier. Harry's offering you sanctuary in the desert."

"Harry's been trying to get me to come to the desert since '58, Stevenson, and it hasn't happened yet. Do you have any proof? Plans? Or did you just come to insult me?"

The man passed him the envelope. "Look. Seems to me that they know the score. For both of you."

The envelope opened to reveal two files.  
 __

 _  
**Erik Lehnsherr, AKA Magneto, AKA Magnus Lehnsherr, AKA Max Eisenhardt**   
_

_**DOB** : Unknown_

 _ **Nation of Origin** : Poland_

 _ **Power** : Metallokinesis_

 _ **Notes** : Known mutant terrorist, possible collaboration with foreign intelligence suspected. Suspected communist sympathiser. _

__

Pages of reports followed, notes on his life, on Shaw, images of himself, in the village who's name he refused to remember, after the war, in Israel, and in Washington. Photo after photo of Nazi corpses, their faces only improved by the grim pall of death and blood.

At the very back, near the bottom, it said the following:  
 _ **Inhibitive serum developed?** YES_

Erik set it down, carefully.

Charles' was much the same.

 _  
**Charles Xavier**   
_

_**DOB** : June 17th, 1931_

 _ **Nation of Origin** : USA_

 _ **Power** : Telepathy_

 _ **Notes** : Known homosexual and mutant terrorist. Known collaborator with foreign intelligence. Subject: Black Womb Project. Captain: US Army 18th Mechanized Brigade. Heir to Xavier fortune. Geneticist, psychologist, biophysicist. Believed member of NY Mattachine Society, believed funding source for NY Mattachine Society.  
_  
Pages of notes also followed, test results and brain scans, medical records, service records, transcripts and bank statements. There were fewer photographs, but those that were there showed groups of men and women, mostly young, some of them laughing, their bodies thrumming with tension, all set in bars no self-respecting person would be caught dead in.

The final page showed the same box.

 ** _Inhibitive serum developed?_** YES


	4. Chapter 4

Charles nodded once. “Thank you, John.”  
He passed the files to Erik.

Stevenson snorted. “Don't. We're even now, you hear me?” He stood, and replaced his hat. “I can see myself out. Take care of yourself, Xavier.”

With swift, easy steps, he left the room, the door swinging shut behind him.

As soon as he left, Charles ran his hands through his hair, its newfound strands of silver glinting in the dim light.

He sighed.

Erik snapped. “What the hell is this all about, Charles?”

“Nothing you need to concern yourself with.”

Erik felt his jaw drop. “Nothing I need to- _mein Gott,_ Charles, are you really that arrogant? We are on _the same side._ That man- he knew who you were, and where to find you, and apparently they do too. They are coming, and-” he spluttered, words temporarily failing him. “- _tell me_ you understand that.”

Charles nodded. He breathed harshly. “I do.” _More than you will ever know, Erik_.  
“So then- you know that if this is to continue, if we are to _fight_ , if we are to _win_ , you have to _trust me_!”

“Are you listening to yourself? Truly, Erik, can you hear? I do not care what you think of me, my _dear friend_ , I assure you I have heard worse from the minds and lips of people far- people for whose opinion I cared far more than _you_. But for the love of God, Erik, be _consistent_. I an either a fool, or I am not. I am either naive, or I am cynical. I am either too trusting, or _I am hiding everything from you_ \- make up your bloody mind!”

“ I don't know who you are anymore!” Erik snapped. “Tell me, Charles, since you are so all-knowing- which is real? Charles Xavier, the lush, the genius, the skirt-chaser, the pretty boy? Or is it Charles Xavier, the queer, the fighter, the- the-” He sputtered, and closed his mouth.

Charles smiled. It was not a nice smile. “Oh, Erik, my dear, dear friend. Tell me- what is it like in there? Where everything is black and white? Is it _comfortable_?”

“You should know the answer to that yourself.”

“I should. I could. But, Erik, remember me this. _I will never lie to you_. That does not mean that I will always tell the truth.”

Erik blinked. “You owe me an explanation.”

“Do I?” He blinks, and the strange smile was there, but there was something else, too. Something bruised and uncertain lurking in its shadows.

“Charles. Whatever you may think of me- I am not a coward. I am not going anywhere.”

“You say that now, Erik, but we both know better. You would have left me on the beach if you could have. There's no use denying it.”

“Charles-”

“I would have wanted you to go.”

The words hit with the force of a thousand fists.

Charles noticed this, or felt the burn of _I'msorryI'msorryI'ddoitagainnevermeanttobutIwoulddoitagain_ that was clogging up his throat, because he spoke.

“Not in the way you think, Erik. But because it would have made you happy. Made you safe. We- we're like oil and fire, Erik. Yes, we both burn brighter together, but when it is over neither remains. If- if things had happened differently, I would have let you go.”

“I don't need your _permission"_

No,” Charles agreed softly. “But perhaps my benediction?”

Erik grunted, stood up sharply. “Charles. I need to know. Want to know. It could be a security risk.”

Charles snorted. “My friend, you spent over a decade as an assassin and an agent with Mossad. I hardly think _I'm_ a security risk.”

Erik inclined his head. “What about blackmail, then?”

“I'm a telepath, Erik. I believe the only incriminating evidence against me, you hold in your hand.”

Erik sighed in frustration.

This didn't make _sense_ , it was like a puzzle without all the pieces, because Charles- the Charles in this file, the Charles in this room, and the Charles in his memory- they were all the same person, but he couldn't bring himself to think of them that way. Couldn't make himself associate the Charles before him with the images in his mind ( _bruised and broken men and women, greymudeverythingisgrey and they scream and no one hears, a memory that was not his own of shameguiltpainlove as everything went red hot and blurred._ )

“Why didn't you stop them?”

It is to his credit that Charles did not need to ask who. “The doctors, you mean?” He sighed.

“The first night of the Blitz, I killed someone.”

Erik looked up. Charles met his gaze steadily, his eyes soft, compassionate voids that damned even as they cradled.

“I was only a child, it wasn't- I manifested during an air raid, and suddenly ther was so much _noise_. I could scarcely breathe, and there was pain and death and- I had no shields. I heard everything, every prayer, every curse, the couple across the way that were having desperate, last minute-sex- everything. And I snapped. Lashed out. And someone died.

“My shields are very good, Erik, but even I cannot maintain them when I am pumped full of sedatives. I had to shut everything down, because I was _scared_ , and one wrong move-”

“And someone would have died.”

“Yes.” Quietly, the regret and distaste so strong he felt he could taste it.

“How did you get out?”

A smile cracked across his face, pale and drawn. “My mother died, actually. They had to let me out for the funeral, and as soon as I was off the sedatives- well, things became much easier.”

“You changed their minds.”

Charles nodded. “In the end, perhaps not the wisest thing I had ever done, but there it is.”

Erik twitched.

Charles smiled softly. “If you want to understand, Erik, then you shall have to trust me.”

“Why?” _You don't trust me._

 _But you have never asked._

Charles' hand rose to undo the buttons of his shirt. Erik recoiled unconsciously. Normally, he would think nothing of a shirtless man, but- things were different, now.

Erik bit his lip.

Over the expanse of pale skin, past the puckered angry wound that spoke of _lossbetrayelhope_ were scattered scars, the familiar ghosts of acid and leather and stainless steel. Those on the abdomen spoke of passion, but the arms and neck whispered their cloying tales of chillingly deliberate cuts and probes.

It was too much, too much, because, except for the thousand ways in which they were-  
 _we are not so different, after all, my friend._

“Charles, what-” _What happened to you?_

Charles smiled tightly. _Life, my friend, has a way of catching up with all of us. Penance, if you will._

That didn't make sense, because Charles was- was _young_ and _soft_ and _not beautiful never beautiful men aren't beautiful_. What could he possibly need to atone for?

He opens his mouth to say as much, when they are interrupted by the door to the library bursting open.

To his credit, Hank doesn't so much as flinch at the sight of Charles' bare chest.

“Raven's back,” he said breathlessly. “She has news.”


	5. Chapter 5

They gathered in the kitchen, the air thrumming with nervous tension. All of them were dishevelled- Charles shirt hastily buttoned, Alex, flushed and red, fresh from the Danger Room, and Hank's fur was rumpled, eyes dark with exhaustion. None of them were sleeping much, anymore, but Hank and Charles especially rarely slept, preferring instead to ensconce themselves in science's calming narcosis. Cerebro was being rebuilt. Any day now, it would be complete, and they could begin.

Azazel stood in the corner, his lips tensed in silent caution. Emma and Janos were conspicuously absent.

Raven seemed to be in the best shape of any of them, but her spinal column revealed a foreign weariness about her frame. For the first time in her life, the _girlsisterdaughtersoldier_ looked every one of her 22 years.

 

She made eye-contact with Charles as he entered.

“They're- Something's coming, Charles. They're building something. I need- Hank, can you take a look at these?” She reached into her wool jacket, still wet from the rain, and pulled out a sheaf of papers. “It's bad, Charles. They have these machines. One of the designers is Sebastian Shaw.”

The thrum in the air increased as metallic atoms excited and vibrated with rage.

“How is that possible?” Erik asked finally. “He is dead.”

“They're old. This- it's been a long time coming.”

Charles nodded, his eyes far off. He no longer bothered with the finger to his temple, not unless he wished to set others at ease. It has been a harmless enough affectation, but it was tactically weak, and frustrating besides.

His lips tightened. He had found what he was looking for.

He smiled slightly, a sad, old smile. It spoke of a regret too deep to fit on a face as young and unlined as Charles'.

“They were looking for an excuse. And we gave it to them.”

Raven nodded.

“I don't understand,” Alex said finally. “What did we do?”

Sean laughed. “What do you _think_ , man? We scared them.”

But Raven shook her head. “It wasn't that. It- Charles-” she trailed off, apparently at a loss for words.

Charles smiled in sympathy. He looked at Erik, and Erik felt an uncomfortable twinge roll up his spinal cord.  
“Erik, listen to me: _you could not have known_.”

Erik looked at him. “What is it, Charles?”

Charles shook his head. “The missing piece. I- I did not understand, before. How they intended to justify this. People will notice, eventually- you cannot just take people form their homes and workplaces without someone noticing, but-”

They both knew that wasn't true.

“People don't hate- not without something. An excuse, a fear, real or imagined, it doesn't matter. Without a reason, it is very hard to justify dragging people off to prisons and asylums and _labs_ without cause. And now-

“They have it. We played right into their hands. They don't intend to hide it- they intend to publicize it. They needed a credible threat, and we gave it to them.” He closed his eyes. “I should have realised...”

Raven spoke up. “You- Charles, it's not your fault. Even you can't be everywhere.”

Sean snorted. “Can _someone_ explain what the hell is going on here?”

Raven and Charles looked at each other, clearly communicating on a plane the others were not privy to.

Charles wet his chapped lips carefully. “They- Cuba. They recorded it. Thus far, the only people to be privy to it has been Congress, and the Senate, and the CIA- but soon, it will be in every home. They're going to broadcast it.”

Erik swore quietly. Hank growled.

Alex wrinkled his eyebrows. Before could say anything, Sean opened his mouth.  
“The medium is the message, right, Prof?” He attempted a smirk, but his eyes were hollow, and terrified.

“The mutant war. Live on tape in glorious technicolour.” Hank said at last. “And these plans- what are we going to do?”

“May I see the blueprints, Hank?” Charles asked softly. “I need to know how bad this is.”

He looked at the documents in silence. Then he looked up, a slight smile playing about the corners of his mouth. “Well, in this iteration, they seem to be made of metal, so I rather think we have a slight advantage.”

Hank pursed his lips. “I expect they've thought of that, Professor.”

Alex looked at him, confused. “What are you talking about, Prof?”

“They've invented machines that can track mutants,” he said quietly. “Like something out of Asimov.”

Charles glanced at Erik, but that was not who he was concerned about.

Erik knew war.

He knew about survival, better than any of them. He needed the fight to survive, in a way. His development had been arrested, and part of him remained _9-11-12-13- **14**_ , still capable of shock and outrage at the thousand tiny and grand indignities of an unforgiving world. That part was buried deep, protected by a surface that was hard, and tough, and-  
Charles forcibly moved his thoughts from their dangerous path.

Even if Erik desired him- and he did, Charles knew he did, would know it even if he were not a telepath, one of the many skills he had learned in smoky rooms of bars he would not otherwise have been caught dead in, the subtle negotiations that took place without words. A reference to music, perhaps, a look, a touch that went on slightly too long. Nothing egregious, nothing too different-  
Charles has always believed in the goodness of people, that we are all fundamentally the same.

It's when we are different, when we refuse, out of sheer bloody-mindedness, to compromise with the dominant society, that we are stomped on.

They had all believed that, to lesser or greater degrees, even Harry, who had left, in the end, claiming that to assimilate was to lose yourself, and begun his colony in the desert.

It had been years since they had spoken face to face, but Charles would have to do so. War was coming, he knew that. He remembered how it had felt.

In those long, dark days of recovery, he had prayed that his children would never need to learn those lessons. Not like he had.

And yet- he had sent his sister out to be what amounted to a spy. Yes, she was with Emma, and Janos, and Azazel, all of them older and more powerful than she- but he had used her. She had wanted to go, but that did not make it less true- this was war, and they were all weapons, loathe though they were to admit it.

(Except Erik, but then he went too far the other way, eschewing his humanity for the simple whir of machinery, _revenge and hate and fear_ processed into a weapon that killed more efficiently than any bullet.)

He looked at the faces of the- _not children, not any more._ (But they would always be children to him. Just as he would always be one to Erik.)

They needed to plan.

They needed a safe house.

It was time to call Harry. The desert was beautiful this time of year.


	6. Chapter 6

"Charles?"

He looked up. All eyes were on him- he had been silent for far too long.

"Yes. Well." He rubbed a hand across his face. "At least we have an idea of what we're up against, now."

Alex snorted. "Yeah, and what we're _up against_ is giant fucking robots. Excuse me if I'm having a hard time seeing the upside here."

"You cannot fight an enemy you cannot see, Alex. Knowledge is our best defence."

"Right, because _you'd_ know all about that."

Charles raised an eyebrow mildly. Alex flushed.

"Sorry, Prof, I-"

"-It's quite all right," he interrupted smoothly, "I think we're all rather on edge at this moment."

"What do we do?" Hank asked quietly, his glasses perched precariously on the end of his furred muzzle.

"Brace ourselves."  
 _Let us then brace ourselves, so that, if Britain and her Commonwealths should last a thousand years, men will still say; this was their finest hour._

"Huh?" Sean looked confused. Erik crossed his arms across his chest.

Charles let out a breath he had not realised he had been holding.

"It isn't safe here," he said finally. "I- over the years I have been fortunate enough to incur a rather large number of favours from the right sort of people."

Raven attempted a smile. "By which you mean the wrong sort of people."

Charles breathed out an attempt at a laugh. "Well, no-one Sharon would have approved of, anyway." He turned serious again. "It isn't safe here. There are too many ties linking me to this place, and once those videos get out... Well, it doesn't bare thinking about."

Erik made a decision. "I'll leave, then." Ignoring the shocked faces of the children, he took a step closer to Charles. "Surely I'm the one they want. The dangerous one. I'm the one they'll come after first. There's no need for you to- for them to find you because of it."

Charles smiled softly. "Erik, my friend, it's not just about you anymore- it's about _us_. There are- factions- in Washington to whom I have been rather an irritation over the years. They've just been waiting for me to make a mistake. And do you know, I rather think I have?"

"No, you didn't," Raven spoke up. "This- _we_ were not a mistake, Charles. Don't talk like that."

"Oh, you misunderstand me. I only meant that I made an error in judgement. I assumed- foolishly, I admit- that my problems were limited to Un-American Activities. Especially in my younger days- they never did take kindly to the notion of a pacifistic English homosexual being able to buy and sell their place in government..." he trailed off. "They only needed a reason."

All was silent.

Charles realised had just been said. He flushed .

He could not bring himself to regret it; they would have to know, after all, if they were to go and stay with Harry- Harry, who had given up on an accepting society after all, and left for the desert all those years ago- it would not be fair.

"You're a queer, then." Alex said flatly. "A fucking faggot, and you expect us to listen to you. To take orders from you." He snorted. "And you were gonna open a _school_. With children. Fuck, Xavier, that's sick."

Charles raised a hand towards him, and stopped as he cringed away.

"Don't fucking touch me." he spat. He looked at the others. "Are you just gonna stand there?"

There was silence.

"Fucking idiots, all of you." And with that, he stormed out of the room.

Still, no one spoke.

"Well?" Charles turned to the rest of them. "If you feel that- that you can no longer work with me, I understand. I-I do not approve, but I understand."

Silence.

"Now would be the time to say something."

Sean raised an eyebrow. "I kinda figured, to be honest."

Charles felt a stone drop in his stomach. "Did you really?"

He thought he had been careful. Clearly, he was mistaken.

"Yeah. And, well, I don't exactly like it, if I was going to leave I would have done so by now." He turned towards the door. "I'm gonna try and find Havok."

As he left, he paused, awkwardly, and patted Charles' shoulder, once. "Let me know what the plan is."

Hank followed wordlessly, darting anxious, silent glances out from beneath his hair.

"Raven?" _You haven't said anything._

I told you to stay out of my head.

She looked up, and her eyes were bright. "How could you, Charles? You- it's not just your ass on the line here, it's all of us."

"I realise that, and I apologise. But, Raven," Charles continued, "Surely you-"

"-Surely I what? _Knew_? I didn't know, Charles, because for me to know you would have had to have trusted me, have had to have treated me like an _adult_ for one God damn second- do you think I'm an idiot, Charles?"

"Of course not."

"Then how could you do that to me? You- I wouldn't have turned you in. Surely you know that." _I could have helped you_.

"I couldn't take that chance." _You did, more than you know._

Raven was crying in earnest, now. _How am I supposed to trust you again?_

I wish I could answer that, my dear.

With a wordless cry of frustration, Raven pushed past him and out the door.

The kitchen was once again silent.

"So," Erik said finally. "You have a plan, then?"

Charles resisted the urge to bang his head against the wall. "A... friend has offered me the use of a safehouse in the desert. I suggest we go there as soon as possible, and regroup. Plan our attack."

Erik gave him a flat look. "Run away, you mean."

"I prefer the term 'retreat', myself."

"Hm." Erik stretched. "I'm going for a run."

He paused in the doorway. "Charles- even if I... agree... with many of the things the boy said, does not mean that he had a right to say them."

"So it's fine to _think_ me a pervert, but not to say the words to my face?"

Erik didn't know how to answer that.

"Never mind," Charles said, voice tinged with a weariness far beyond his years. "I appreciate the sentiment. Go."

"I-"

"-Erik, go! I need time to- please. Just go."

Erik did as he was told.


	7. Chapter 7

“So, you've come round to my way of thinking at last. I knew it was only a matter of time.”

“Don't gloat, Harry, it's not seemly.” Charles pauses, and takes a deep breath. “I need your help. We- there are children here. I can't expose them to this.”

Through the scratch of the connection, Charles hears the soft smack of Harry chewing his lip.

“I'm sorry it's come to this,” he says at last. “I never wanted to be right, you know.”

Charles laughs softly. “I know. I- Harry, there's more to this story, things you should know, things about- about me and about this- it's not what we planned for, not entirely, and- I won't be responsible for bringing a combat situation to your doorstep.” Not after Harry had spent so many years building it.

His sanctuary from an unforgiving world.

Charles had hoped, in the back of his mind, that the mansion could one day be something similar, shelter them from a different type of storm.

He will never forgive himself for that ceasing to be the case. Perhaps this is his penance. (Though it isn't, because Charles has done a great many things and borne a great many sins, but no more so than any other person with a modicum of compassion, and he knows it.)

His throat clenches, because it _hurts_ , the idea of leaving this place, and he smiles like a wound and ignores the- _ghosts, millions of them, of chapped lips and unlined necks and the smell of kerosene and sweat and arousal, of burning and pain and hate, griefandfearandyearning combining into something that is almost but not quite love_ \- because that is gone, now, has been gone for years, and being here amongst his dreams as they bruise before his eyes is far worse than the memories that are strewn about the dusty furniture like a discarded purple dress.

“I know,” Harry says mildly.

“How could you?”

“You _do_ read the papers, yes? Charles, my brother is an asshole, not an idiot.”

Charles gulps. “We shouldn't have this conversation now. They're probably monitoring-”

“-Your line? Oh, Charlie, join the club, won't you? They've done mine for years. They get off on it.”

He was joking, but there was a weariness in his tone, the same barely sublimated frustration that  
Charles remembers from years ago, before Korea, even; heard and seen and felt from a hundred exhausted and strung-out souls who were sick of fighting, but recognised its necessity.

He saw it in the mirror all too often of late.

“Still, we- we shouldn't. Not like this.”

A grunt of assent. “Can you still...?” he trailed off delicately.

 _Yes_

 _Damnit, Xavier, you always were a lucky bastard._

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

“We're going to New Mexico,” Charles says when Erik comes in, still red and damp with sweat but looking slightly less wild than he had two hours ago. “Or at least, I am, and the children- if they want, that is.” _I would very much like it if you would come with me._

Erik gritted his teeth, the lines of his body growing taught and wary. “I don't run away. Not from anyone, and certainly not from humans.”

Charles smiles softly. “I find it rather amazing that you seem to think I will disagree.” _We're not running. I know what these people are like._

Erik snorts. It's different, it has to be, because Erik has spent a long time on his own, and part of him still feels out of his depth when surrounded by these trappings of _wealtheducationsuccess_. He is not a stupid man, but the soothing solace of education was one of the first to be ripped from his young bones, replacing knowledge's warm amphetamine with cold and hate and fear. After all, what use did the scum of the Earth have for _Latin_?

He was not a stupid man, far from it- he would not have survived this long if he was- and he is well-read, for what it is worth, has always found language and literature easy to learn (which was a blessing after the war, when he could not hear his mother tongue without wincing, and German was the language of the guards, of the invaders, and and so it did not matter that it was also the language of his father; he could not bring himself to speak it for many years.)

It did not matter- yet it did, in ways he couldn't quantify, particularly around Charles and Hank- Charles must have realised this, because he would steer the subject to something he was familiar with, and the deliberate good intentions of those actions hurt worse than the accidental exclusion.

The point is, if he is wrong after all, if Charles does know- something- of human character, where does that leave him- his role is as protector, it always has been, and there are those who would argue (himself included) that he's done a rather terrible job in that department of late.

Charles either does not hear him or is respecting Erik's wishes and staying out of his mind, because he smiles slightly, a soft, strange smile, and says, almost to himself, “I was in the Army, you know, Erik.”

Something in Erik's throat squeezes tight, because he had _known_ , had read the proof in black type on yellowed paper, but there is a difference between knowing and reading and _believing_.

Charles' smile broadens. If Erik did not know better, he would say he looks lost, and that thought is so terrifying he immediately dismisses it.

“I served in Korea. Search and rescue; I was rather _uniquely_ suited to it, after all, and as a result have several contacts who owe me a favour- Erik, we have _friends_. We need not fight this war alone.”

Something inside Erik flinches, because he has always fought alone, his _angerragepain_ a better companion in battle than any he had met.

Then he met Charles. Charles, who apparently does not intend to let him fight this war alone- believes he will be there by his side on the front lines.

“Charles, I-” he begins.

“Erik,” Charles interrupts, and his voice is hoarse, scratchy, somehow, as though he has to force the words to fall from his lips like pearls of flame, “You do not have to come. I- I would understand. I would not approve, but I would understand, and I would endeavour to help you however I can.”

The only thing more terrifying than fighting this war with Charles would be to fight it without him.  
Erik sighs.  
“How do you believe this will end, Charles? What are your intentions?”

“My intentions...” Charles trails off, and takes a sip of a glass of water that sat on the coffee table. “I intend to win, Erik. Preferably with you by my side. I intend to create a world where we can be safe.”

“And after?”

“After... Well, after I was rather hoping you could come with me. Together... Erik, together we could change the world. Save it, even. I want you there, and I want you _here_ , but I will not make you stay.”  
“How do I know?”  
“I suppose you will have to trust me.”  
Charles looks Erik in the eye, and for a moment Erik feels as though he might drown in the endless pools of blue, the _lovepainhopehope_ that seems to exude from his every pore.

“Erik,” he says, and the words echo inside his mind. “Please stay with me. I cannot do this on my own.” _I will if I have to_.  
There is a note of self-sacrifice in Charles' tone that makes Erik want to scream.

“Charles, I.. I don't know. Not yet.”

Erik felt jolt of surprise shoot through his spine and into his legs, and his muscles tensed instinctively as Charles pulled him slowly, carefully down to his eye level and gently pressed his chapped, peeling lips roughly against Erik's.  
His unshaven scruff rasped Erik's cheek.  
Erik gasped at the emotion rushing through him. _WrongsickwrongwrongweakweakneedthisCharlesCharlesnotaloneneedyounotcan'tnoyeslovelovefear_  
He breaks the kiss. “Charles...” his voice is hoarse with emotion and arousal and something else that burned in the white hot space behind his eyes where everything begins and ends. “We can't... I'm not... like you.”

Charles smiles tightly. “I know,” he whispers.

All is silent for a moment.

“Would you like me to apologise?”

Erik shakes his head. “No, you... that can't happen again.”

“I know.”

“I want to stay.”

“I know.”

Never taking his eyes off of Erik's, Charles carefully extends his hand.

“Fight by my side, Erik. Please.”

Slowly, Erik shakes it.

 _The best weapon against an enemy is another enemy._  
-Friedrich Nietzsche

 **END PART ONE**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That concludes _A Measure of Progress_ , my first ever foray into XMFC fandom, and the beginning of my series entitled _I'll Follow The Sun_ , where this story will continue. I hope you have enjoyed it as much as I have.Thank you to everyone who has reviewed, kudoed, and bookmarked, both here and on LJ and dreamwidth. It means a lot to me, you have no idea.


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